your shoes off?”
“Forget it,” I said. “You were going to tell me about your difficult experience.”
“Right,” said Toshiro. “I’m afraid I’m what you would call a spy. Actually, it didn’t work out quite that way. I mean I wasn’t trained somewhere. My family does live in San Diego. We moved there from Tokyo about five years ago. I’m still a Japanese citizen. Japan is my country. American propaganda to the contrary, Japan is not totally at fault in what is going on. We are not totally innocent either. Well, to make this tale short, certain people from Japan contacted me because I am an aeronautical engineering student and asked me to take this job with Hughes and try to examine his papers if the opportunity arose, or if I could make it arise.”
“And you failed,” I guessed.
“Hell no,” he smiled. “I got a full set of photographs the day before the party and left everything neat and clean. Then those Germans came in and botched up the whole thing. I was afraid the investigation would lead to me.”
A figure appeared in the door with a gun. It was Paddy Whannel, the Scottish studio guard, who looked completely befuddled by what he saw-an unconscious woman on the floor, broken records all over the place, a guy with a bleeding foot and a young Japanese talking calmly.
“What the hell is this?” he said. “Peters, what’s going on?”
“Paddy, my friend,” I said. “I’m just beginning to find out. I suggest you lug the rather sturdy young lady out and tie her up. She murdered a couple of people. Then you might call the police and tell them to come here and pick up the more-than-suspect. I’ll explain.”
Whannel pointed his gun at Toshiro.
“Sure you’ll be all right with him?” he said.
“No,” I said, “but I’ll take my chances.”
Whannel holstered his gun and dragged Trudi away. In the hall, her heels made a double track in the NBC rug and we could hear him grunting.
“Doesn’t leave me much time,” said Toshiro.
“No,” I said. “Your plan is to turn the photographs over to the Japanese government, the photographs of Hughes’ plans for the bomber and the D-2 flying boat?
“Yes,” said Toshiro, “but my government won’t be able to do anything with them. I examined the plans carefully. Neither project is the slightest bit practical. The H-l he designed back in ’34 was a masterpiece. I’ve admired it for years, but the two projects he’s planning now are the overweight products of an overworked mind.”
“Then all this killing has been for nothing?” I said, wiping the bottom of my bare foot with Kleenex.
“It usually is,” said Toshiro. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I lifted Mrs. Gurstwald’s camera from her glove compartment before I came in. It probably still has the undeveloped photographs she took of Hughes’ plans. You can have it and give it back to Hughes. That way he’s happy and thinks his plans are safe, my government is happy and no one else gets hurt.”
“And you?”
“I get the hell out of here, go back to my family and drive to Mexico tonight. Then tomorrow we get a flight back to Tokyo. In a few hours all hell is going to break loose in this country, and I don’t want to be here. I’ve got the word that places have already been designated for interning Japanese Americans and Japanese nationals as soon as the war starts.”
“You’re letting your imagination go too far,” I said.
He took a small camera out of his pocket and handed it to me.
“You going to try to stop me?” he said.
“I owe you my life,” I said. “I’ve got a soft head and a long memory. Have a good trip.”
I looked up and Toshiro was gone.
In five minutes, after soaking my leg in cold water in an NBC sink and being interrupted only once by the engineer, who had seen me through the studio window, I found Paddy Whannel and we waited for the police.
It was somewhere about two when my brother and Steve Seidman arrived. My watch said two-twenty. Even a stopped watch has to be right twice a day, someone once told me. Or maybe I read it on the wall of the YMCA toilet.
“They called me at home when they heard your name,” Phil explained, leading me into an office Paddy Whannel provided. Seidman stayed outside. Phil needed a shave. The grey stubble on his chin made him look old and mean.
He closed the door behind us and said, “Explain.”
I explained fast, weaving a tale mostly of truth. I told about Trudi, Martin Schell and Barton. I told him they had tried to steal Hughes’ plans and failed. I didn’t tell him about Toshiro. I suggested he check Trudi’s gun and talk to her. I was sure she’d be willing to talk. He said Seidman was talking to her.
“So she killed the butler and Barton,” Phil said perceptively. “Who killed the guy in Minck’s dental chair?”
“A Nazi who can’t speak English,” I said. “A short guy with a lot of neck. Seidman and the FBI were with him at County Hospital yesterday.”
Phil’s angry look came on fast.
“How the hell did you know that?”
“I have a vast network of spies,” I said, and he moved at me with clenched fists. “For God’s sake,” I yelled, “I’m handing you murderers and spies all wrapped up to give to the FBI, and you want to further cripple a crippled man. Where’s your gratitude?”
He took my face in his big right hand, brought it close to his and then pushed me away. Then he held his hands together to keep them from doing something we would both regret.
“The guy in the hospital was named Kirst,” said Phil. “He’s dead. Got hit by a car. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
“No,” I said.
“Now, why did he strangle the Nazi in your office?”
“Double-cross,” I said. “Wolfgang Schell wasn’t supposed to kill me. He was supposed to find out how I fit in, but he got carried away and tried to kill me. Kirst tried to stop him, and they had a fight. He pummeled the hell out of Kirst. Some of the wounds on his body didn’t come from that automobile accident.”
“We know,” Phil said suspiciously. “Go on.”
“So, Kirst bled all over the place, got mad and strangled Schell in the dental chair.”
Now if Phil didn’t check blood types, or if the blood types of Kirst and the blood in Shelly’s office matched, everything was fine.
“That is one hell of a story,” Phil sighed.
“You think the FBI will buy it?” I said.
He shrugged.
“How much of it is true?” he asked in an almost friendly way.
“Most of it. Enough.”
“In a way, I don’t give a damn,” he said. “Three Nazis and a drunken Air Force major. Is she a Nazi too?” He pointed to the door, clearly meaning Trudi.
“If you mean a German, yes. If you mean a Nazi, no.”
“They’re all Nazis,” Phil said, simplifying the world like a good cop.
Seidman knocked and came in.
“Well?” said Phil.
“She’s a talker,” said Seidman. “Confessed to two murders, cried, pleaded. Said something about someone hitting her.”
“I did,” I said. “She was going to shoot me. I kicked the gun out of her hand.”
“Night guard out there said something about a Japanese guy,” said Seidman, looking at me. Phil looked at me.
“Chinese,” I said. “Here visiting a friend or something. Saw the mess and stuck his head in to see if he could help. I didn’t get his name. He gave it. Loo or Chan or something like that.”
“Get out,” said Phil. “Fast before your ass falls off from all the lies. Get out, you shit.” He raged and threw something in my general direction. It was an NBC ashtray. It almost hit Seidman.
